Mediterranean Seduction. Кэрол Мортимер

knows,’ he muttered in his own language, but she understood him. He headed for the car. ‘Are you coming?’

      The bar he took her to was in the next village. A whitewashed building on the road, it was open at the back, spilling its customers out onto a wood-framed deck above a pebbled beach. Further along, a black jetty jutted out into the blue water, and several small fishing smacks and rowing boats were drawn up onto a strip of sand. Old men sat mending their nets, and, judging by the clientele in the bar, this was not a venue for tourists.

      Contrary to what Enrique had said earlier, the bartender knew exactly who he was, and it was obvious from the man’s manner that he welcomed his customer. Cassandra guessed, nonetheless, that he was curious about who she was and why Enrique should choose to bring her here, but he knew better than to ask questions. Instead, he escorted them personally to a table on the deck that was shaded by a canvas canopy, and enquired politely what he could get them to drink.

      ‘Wine?’ suggested Enrique, looking at Cassandra, and at her indifferent nod he ordered two glasses of Rioja. ‘It is served from a barrel here,’ he explained as the man walked away, and Cassandra guessed he was only behaving courteously for the other man’s benefit.

      ‘What is this place?’ she asked, taking her cue from him, and Enrique glanced towards the jetty before looking at her.

      ‘San Augustin,’ he said in the same civil tone. ‘I used to come here a lot when I was younger. While I was a student, I worked behind the bar for a while until my father found out.’

      ‘And stopped you?’ suggested Cassandra unthinkingly, and he nodded.

      ‘My father said a de Montoya should not—well, it is not important what he said,’ he appended shortly. ‘It is many years now.’

      ‘Yet the bartender remembers you.’

      ‘I did not mean it is so many years since I was here,’ he explained. ‘José and I, we know one another quite well.’

      Cassandra began to smile and then pulled her lips into a straight line again. She was starting to relax with him and that was not good. She had no doubt it would suit him very well, but she had to remember why he had brought her here and it wasn’t to exchange anecdotes about the past. Well, not that past anyway, she amended, with a sudden spurt of hysteria.

      The bartender returned with their wine and a large plate of what she realised were tapas. But not the mass-produced tapas that were available in the bars in Punta del Lobo. Something told her that this was the real thing, the fat juicy olives, spiced with herbs, the batter-dipped prawns, the bite-sized pieces of crisply fried fish bearing little resemblance to what she’d seen so far. They smelled wholesome, too, and in other circumstances the cheese that was oozing out of the paper-thin rolls of ham would have made her mouth water.

      ‘Is good, señor?’ the man enquired, obviously having heard them speaking in English, and Enrique inclined his head.

      ‘Muy bien, José,’ he responded in his own language. Very good. ‘Gracias.’

      The bartender smiled and went away, and Enrique indicated the food. ‘Are you hungry?’

      ‘Hardly,’ said Cassandra, reluctantly taking a sip of her wine. She hoped it wasn’t too intoxicating. She’d had nothing to eat that day and her stomach was already bubbling with apprehension. ‘Why did you want to speak to me?’

      Enrique hesitated. She noticed he wasn’t interested in the food either and, like her, he seemed quite content to concentrate on his wine. His hands, brown and long-fingered, played with the stem of his glass, and she was mesmerised by their sensitive caress. It reminded her far too acutely of how those fingers had felt gripping her wrist, grasping her arm, stroking her naked flesh…

      She took a laboured breath as somewhere nearby a guitar began to play. Its music, poignant at times, at others vibrantly sensual, tugged at her emotions, fanning the flames of memories she desperately wanted to forget. She should not have come here, she thought unsteadily. She was still far too vulnerable where he was concerned.

      ‘I think you know why we have to talk,’ Enrique said at last, his eyes intent. ‘David is a de Montoya. You had no right to keep that from us.’

      Cassandra pursed her lips. ‘You’re sure of that, are you?’

      ‘What? That he is Antonio’s son? Of course.’

      ‘What makes you so certain?’

      Enrique lay back in his chair, giving her a sardonic look. ‘Cassandra, do not play games with me. We both know that he is the image of his father at that age.’

      ‘Is he?’

      ‘Do you wish me to produce a photograph as proof? No, I did not think so. The boy shows his Spanish blood in every way. His eyes, his colouring, his mannerisms. His honesty.’

      Cassandra stiffened. ‘His honesty?’ she demanded caustically. ‘Oh, right. You’d know a lot about that.’

      A muscle in Enrique’s jaw jerked angrily. ‘Do not bait me, Cassandra. What is it they say about glass houses? It is not wise to throw stones, no?’

      Cassandra rested her elbows on the table, hunching her shoulders and curling her fingers behind her ears. It would be so easy to burst his bubble, she mused, so easy to explode the myth that David was Antonio’s son, but it was seldom wise to give in to temptation, as she knew only too well. Much better to wait to allow the situation to develop, to keep that particular revelation up her sleeve. She had reason to believe that she might need it.

      ‘All right,’ she said, allowing him to make what he liked of that, ‘perhaps I should have informed your father when David was born. But I had every reason to believe that he—that all of you—wanted nothing more to do with me.’

      Enrique’s nostrils flared. ‘So you decided to take your revenge by keeping the boy’s existence a secret from us?’

      ‘It wasn’t revenge,’ exclaimed Cassandra fiercely, her voice rising. And then, aware that she was attracting the attention of other patrons in the bar, she lowered her tone. ‘I mean it. I—I wanted nothing more to do with the de Montoyas.’

      ‘Even though my father was Antonio’s father, too? That he is David’s grandfather? That David is his only grandson?’

      ‘I didn’t know that, did I?’ muttered Cassandra, taking a reckless gulp of her wine and almost choking herself. She coughed painfully and her eyes watered and it was several minutes before she could continue. ‘I assumed that you’d have married and had children of your own,’ she got out at last.

      ‘Did you really?’ He was sceptical.

      ‘If I ever thought about it,’ she declared defensively. ‘I—have to admit, it’s not something that’s given me sleepless nights.’

      Which wasn’t entirely true, but Enrique didn’t need to know that.

      ‘No,’ he said now, his lips twisting. ‘Why should you waste your time on something that meant so little to you?’

      Cassandra arched brows that were several shades darker than her hair. ‘Do you blame me?’

      Enrique shrugged, and with sudden urgency she added, ‘I’ve always wondered, what did you tell Antonio?’

      Enrique shook his head. ‘Why should I tell you? He obviously did not believe me.’

      ‘No.’ She looked doubtful. ‘He never said anything about it to me.’

      ‘Why would he?’ Enrique was harsh. ‘My brother, too, was an honourable man.’

      ‘Too?’ she mocked him. ‘I hope you’re not including yourself in that statement.’

      ‘I meant my father,’ he retorted coldly. ‘And my nephew David, at least understands that family means something.’

      ‘David has a family.’ Cassandra quivered in remembrance